


slackened ties

by gothyringwald



Series: gothy's harringrove week of love fics [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Roommates, Sexual Content, Sneaking Around, Unresolved Romantic Tension, billy being a jerk to hide his feelings, still the 1980s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22671373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: Billy has been to three schools in as many years. His latest is Brenner Academy, a shithole somewhere in Indiana, that's not even co-ed. But the worst thing is that he’s stuck with Steve Harrington—with his stupid hair and his big eyes—as his roommate. But it’s fine. Billy just has to make it until graduation and then it’s adios, Steve Harrington, see you never!
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: gothy's harringrove week of love fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1276193
Comments: 37
Kudos: 222
Collections: Harringrove Week of Love





	slackened ties

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have a full draft for a whole boarding school AU that I wrote up in August 2018, but then I shelved it because I couldn’t make it do what I wanted it to! So this is kind of a remix of a fic I haven’t published yet which is a bit unorthodox but hopefully it works!
> 
> Oh, also, I just want to say that the school names do not indicate anything sinister going on but I was getting desperate and no other names either from ST or from 80s films that have a link to ST suited the sound of a boarding school so yeah...that's why I went with these! I might change them one day but, for now, they're just names haha

Brenner Academy is a joke. At first glance it’s admittedly kind of impressive. A sprawling old building, with several smaller surrounding, on expansive lush grounds in the Indiana countryside. A huge lake for the rowing team, trees everywhere. Pretty fucking picturesque, all things considered.

But up close, the masonry is crumbling, every roof has at least one leak, the scent of damp is _everywhere_ , and it’s not even co-ed.

Billy’s last three schools all went co-ed in the 1970s. This place is a fucking relic.

But it’s better than being carted off to the military academy his dad had threatened him with if he ever got thrown out of another school. And he had. Because he got caught with his hand up Chrissy Thomkins’ skirt. And _her_ hands… Well. 

A guy has needs and even the threat of military school can’t cool them.

If his dad’s old army buddy wasn’t the principal at this Indiana shithole, hadn’t pulled some strings, then Billy would be sporting a buzzcut, doing drills, and wearing a dorky fucking uniform.

Instead, he’s at some shitty school in the middle of nowhere, with no girls, wearing a dorky fucking uniform. Just peachy.

But the cherry on top of the shit sundae is that he’s stuck with Steve Harrington as a roommate. The first time they met, Harrington had been going through Billy’s things. He’d said a box had fallen from where they were stacked on Billy’s bed, that he was only picking it up, but Billy thinks he’s a snoop. 

It’s not long before Billy realises he can’t stand Harrington. The other guys here aren’t much better—a bunch of losers, all of them—but Harrington and his stupid hair and his big eyes and his long fingers _touching Billy’s stuff_? Billy fucking hates him.

But it’s October so Billy only has to make it to graduation before he’s out of this school, and out of Indiana, forever.

And then it’s adios, Steve Harrington, see you never.

—

‘What’s the deal with my roommate?’ Billy asks one of the guys—Tommy, he thinks—soon after he gets there.

‘Harrington?’ Tommy looks across the court to where Harrington is waiting by the sidelines. ‘He used to be cool.’ His lips tilt into a smirk. ‘But he turned bitch after he started dating some chick from Miss Ives’.’

Billy frowns. ‘The girl’s school across the lake?’

‘Yeah.’ Tommy snorts. ‘And then she dumped him for Byers.’ He nods to a pale, weedy guy, huddled in a corner.

’Huh,’ is all Billy says. It’s hard to believe that anyone would dump Harrington for him, even if Harrington is a dork. 

Harrington is stretching, now, arms above his head, shirt riding up.

Billy grabs the ball from Tommy. ’Hey, roomie,’ he yells. When Harrington turns around he adds, ‘Think quick,’ and throws the ball.

It hits Harrington square in the chest. Hard enough that it looks like it winds him. ‘What the fuck?’ he says, rubbing his chest. ‘What’s your problem?’

Billy only grins.

—

Pissing Harrington off, getting under his skin, Billy soon discovers, is the one thing that makes being at this school bearable.

And, so, Billy takes every opportunity he can to do just that.

—

‘Dude, what the fuck is this shit?’ Billy sits up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. The springs creak with his movement, his feet land heavily on the floorboards.

Harrington blinks over at him from the desk between their beds. ‘Huh?’

The afternoon sun pours through the window above the desk, catching the edges of Harrington’s hair.

Billy waves a hand at the boom box. ‘ _That_ shit.’

‘It’s um’—Harrington picks up a cassette box—‘Phil Collins.’

‘Well turn it off, it’s making my ears bleed.’

‘It’s better than your music,’ Harrington says, nodding to the Metallica poster above Billy’s bed.

Irritation sparks in Billy’s blood. His eyes narrow. ‘Like I’m gonna trust the taste of someone who thinks Phil Collins is music.’

‘Whatever,’ Harrington murmurs, shrugging one shoulder, ‘I like what I like.’

And that casual way he brushes off Billy’s remark makes the irritation burst into flames. Billy pushes himself up and moves to lean over Harrington, picking up the small stack of cassettes sitting by the penholder. ‘These are all shit,’ he says, but Harrington doesn’t react.

Billy opens the window—it sticks, the frame warped—and leans over the ledge, tapes in hand.

But Harrington catches his wrist, fingers burning into Billy’s skin. ‘What are you doing?’ 

‘Throwing this trash away,’ Billy says, tongue between his teeth.

The hint of fire that flickers in Harrington’s eyes makes Billy’s pulse thud. Harrington grabs the tapes and throws them on his bed, then turns back. ‘Leave my shit alone,’ he says and sits back down.

Billy snorts. ‘That’s rich coming from the guy who was pawing my stuff before I even moved in.’

‘I wasn’t—‘ Harrington’s hand tightens on his pen. He lets out a long breath. ‘Whatever.’

They lapse back into silence. It crawls along Billy’s skin, even more than how he can hear Harrington breathing, can smell his hairspray, could count every one of the moles dotted along his arms if he wanted. 

Their room is too fucking small. 

Billy turns back to the desk, perches on the edge. He leans on one hand, twists around to look at Harrington. ’What are you doing?’

‘I’m writing a letter to Santa,’ Harrington says, not looking up, ‘asking for a new roommate.’

‘Only if you’re a good boy,’ Billy says, smirking.

Harrington looks up, then, gaze catching Billy’s, eyes dark in the afternoon light.

Something twists low in Billy’s gut. It’s not— It’s not a bad feeling but he pushes it down, down, down. 

Harrington’s cheeks pink and he looks back to the desk. ‘I’m doing homework.’

‘Which class?’ Billy says, voice coming out all wrong.

When Harrington doesn’t answer, Billy plucks the pen from his hand, thumb brushing Harrington’s forefinger.

Harrington turns a glare on Billy. ‘English,’ he grits out, and snatches the pen back. Their hands don’t brush this time.

‘You spelt Hemingway wrong,’ Billy says, tapping the paper.

‘What?’

Billy lets out a low laugh and pushes off the desk. His hip checks Harrington’s shoulder as he moves past, sloping off toward the door. He pauses, turns back. Tries to think of another smartass remark but Harrington is hunched over his paper and Billy’s tongue feels clumsy. 

So he leaves, finds Tommy H and some of the other guys, and they play ball for a while. But no matter how hard he plays, it doesn’t settle the feeling churning inside him.

—

Billy watches Harrington. He has shit taste in music, he’s shit at basketball, and he spends most of his time on his own.

OK, he’s not _bad_ at basketball but he’s too distracted to be good. 

But Billy can see, the closer he looks, how he used to be cool. How the guys here would have thought he was cool. He’s got the hair and the smile and the quick charm he can turn on when he wants to.

All the makings of a king in a place like this and yet he gave it up for some chick?

What a fucking loser.

—

‘Mr Hargrove,’ Mr Williams says, as he walks into the classroom and sets his briefcase on his desk.

Billy tips his head and says, ‘Mr Williams.’

‘Put your tie on, or I will have to write you up.’

‘It is on, sir,’ Billy says, tugging on the end of his tie, which is knotted around his forehead. 

The other boys in the class snicker.

‘Very clever,’ Mr Williams says, drily. ‘Put it on _properly_. You’ve been here long enough, now, to know the uniform code.’

‘But, sir,’ Billy says, swinging back on his chair, earning him a long-suffering look, ‘it doesn’t say where you’re meant to wear your tie in the code.’ His chair lands with a thud. ‘I’ve read it three times.’

Across the room, Harrington snorts behind his book.

‘Do you have anything to contribute to the topic of Mr Hargrove’s sartorial rebellion, Mr Harrington,’ Mr Williams says. 

‘Uh, no, sir,’ Harrington says, but he’s clearly fighting back a smile. 

‘Good.’ Mr Williams turns back to Billy. ‘I don’t care what the code says, Mr Hargrove, in my classroom you wear your tie around your neck, like a civilised gentleman.’ He pauses, raising one silver brow. ‘I know that it will likely be a stretch for you to imagine what it might be like to be either civilised or a gentleman, but do try.’

Billy curls his hands around the edge of his desk, gripping it hard. The old codger thinks he’s fucking British, or something. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says, saluting, but he makes no move to put his tie on properly.

‘Well?’ Mr Williams says. ‘Or do you have a yearning desire to go to military school. I believe that’s your next port of call if things don’t work out here.’

Billy’s face burns. How the fuck does he know about that? But he swallows thickly, murmuring, ‘Yes, sir,’ and puts his tie on, straightening out his collar. He doesn’t do it up all the way.

Mr Williams shakes his head and says, ‘Now, boys, let’s talk algebra.’

When he turns to the board, Billy flips him off with both hands.

Harrington shoots him an impressed smile, and Billy feels warm for a different reason.

Maybe Harrington’s not such a dweeb after all.

—

The floorboard three steps from the door creaks then moments later the door opens and closes. Billy lies in bed, waits a minute, then follows.

Harrington has been sneaking out every night this week and Billy wants to know where he goes. He’d thought about asking, but he didn’t want to seem interested. Like he cares. Because he doesn’t. 

But he has to know.

Harrington is heading down the stairs when Billy steps out into the hall. Billy is quiet, knows how to sneak around and not get caught, as he follows Harrington out of the dorms and into the grounds.

The moon lights their way, silver and fat in the dark sky. The air is still and crisp.

Harrington rushes across the lawn, shoulders hunched against the cold—a sweatshirt pulled over his pyjamas—toward a small building. He goes around the side and to a door that’s hidden by some bushes.

Billy waits a moment, then another, before he follows Harrington inside. The splintered stairs creak beneath his bare feet and it’s so dark he can barely see. By the time he reaches the top of the stairs his eyes have adjusted to the dark and, so, when he steps into the attic he blinks against the warm light of a small oil lamp.

‘Hargrove,’ Harrington says, gaping up at Billy, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Followed you,’ Billy says.

Harrington’s brows shoot up. ‘Why?’

Billy doesn’t answer, but he looks around the room. There are boxes everywhere, pieces of broken furniture and stacks of old books.

Harrington is sitting cross-legged on the cushion of an old couch, holding a tin of ravioli in both of his hands. 

‘Have you been sneaking out for a midnight snack?’ Something like disappointment flutters behind Billy’s ribs. He doesn’t know what he was expecting to find but it wasn’t Harrington eating ravioli. ‘Seriously?’

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ Harrington says around a mouthful of cold pasta.

Billy screws his nose up and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘What is this place anyway?’

‘The old admin building,’ Harrington says. ‘They use it to store food and shit. Don’t think anyone else knows about it.’

‘You bring chicks out here?’ Billy eyes the mattress covered in surprisingly new sheets and a blanket.

Harrington shrugs one shoulder. ‘Used to.’

Silence falls then, the only sound Harrington chewing the fucking ravioli. Then Harrington thrusts the tin at Billy and says, ‘Want some?’

Billy’s eyes narrow. He and Harrington aren’t friends—far from it—and this seems a bit too chummy. But he doesn’t want to go back to the dorm, lie there staring up at the ceiling, bored out of his fucking mind.

So he takes the tin and sits on a lopsided floral armchair across from Harrington. He stabs the fork sitting in the tin into a piece of ravioli. ‘Not bad,’ he says, not thinking about how Harrington had had the same fork in his mouth not a minute ago.

‘Yeah.’ Harrington watches him, lips pressed together, and Billy’s about to tell him to take a picture or something, when Harrington reaches behind him. ‘But it’s better with something to drink,’ he says, waggling a bottle.

Billy swipes the bottle, eyes the label; it’s cheap whisky but it’s booze. ‘Now that is what I’m talking about.’ Billy sets the ravioli down and unscrews the cap of the bottle. The whisky doesn’t exactly go down smooth but it’s what Billy needs.

‘Quit hogging it,’ Harrington says, reaching out a hand.

Billy rolls his eyes but he passes the bottle over.

‘You really gonna go to military school?’ Harrington asks.

Billy shoots him a dark look. His chest tightens, a little. Then he shrugs. ‘Only if I get kicked out of here.’ 

‘Guess you’d better not get kicked out,’ Harrington says.

‘Guess not,’ Billy says slowly. Something seems to pass between them then that Billy can’t put a name to.

Then Harrington brings out a pack of cigarettes, lights one with a match from a dogeared matchbook, and hands the pack to Billy.

Billy taps out a cigarette, sticks it between his lips and says, ‘You’re just full of surprises tonight, huh?’ as he lights it.

Harrington gives him a crooked sly grin. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘guess I am.’

—

Billy doesn’t do friends. He lets guys like Tommy hang around him because he’s not about to look like a loser like Byers, but he doesn’t do _friends_.

After the ravioli and the whisky, Harrington seems to think they’re best buds or some shit. And Billy can’t have that.

So he rides Harrington hard when they play ball, plays his music louder and louder when Steve is studying in their room, is as abrasive as he can be without getting kicked out of school.

‘What is your problem?’ Harrington asks one day. ‘You know, I thought—’

‘You thought what?’

‘Maybe we could be _friends_.’ Harrington throws his hands up. ‘That was stupid, huh?’

‘I don’t make friends with losers,’ Billy says, matter-of-fact.

Hurt flickers in Harrington’s eyes. ‘You are such an asshole,’ he says, and stalks off.

The victory feels hollow.

—

Things are more tense than ever, after that. It builds and it builds and it builds until it bursts in a fury of fists and blood.

(Because Harrington is a bleeding heart, standing up for some younger kids who got in Billy’s way).

The blood on Billy’s hands, in his mouth, feels so fucking good.

—

Fighting, inevitably, leads to fucking.

The first time they have sex it’s during detention, the aftermath of their fight, which ends up in another. It’s rough and bloody and, fuck, it’s exactly what Billy’s needed.

The second time, Billy corners Harrington because he’s been avoiding him. When Harrington tells him he’s not like _that_ it makes something cold and hard twist in Billy’s gut. But Billy shakes it off, tells him that it’s just two guys letting off steam, doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t mean they’re—

He goes down on Harrington, then, on his knees in their dorm.

And after that Billy loses count. They fuck whenever they can and Billy doesn’t let himself stop to think about it. Because come graduation he’s out of here and this doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t.

It doesn’t.

They’re in Billy’s bed one night, after lights out. Tangled together, shorts around their ankles, hands gripping each other tight. Their cocks slide together, slick with sweat and precome, heat arrowing to Billy’s groin.

‘Want me to blow you?’ Harrington says, one hand curled around Billy’s thigh. 

Billy swallows, heat crawling up his neck, and says, ‘Fuck yes.’

Harrington gives him a smile that’s somehow half-shy, half-smug—it makes Billy’s stomach do something he doesn’t want to think about too closely—and moves down. Trailing kisses down Billy’s chest, his stomach, then takes Billy into his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ Billy breathes out, hips thrusting up.

Harrington hums, smugly, around his cock, sending shockwaves up Billy’s spine. 

The first time Harrington had gone down on him, Billy could tell it was the first time he’d done it at all but, fuck, he’s a fast learner. And he gets off on making Billy come, trying to outdo himself each time.

Billy isn’t about to complain.

His toes curl into the sheets and his hands fist tighter into Harrington’s hair and his back arches off the bed as his orgasm rocks through him and he comes in Harrington’s mouth.

Harrington lets him ride it out then kisses his way back up Billy’s stomach and chest, kisses Billy on the mouth. He’s hard against Billy’s hip and Billy reaches between them, jerks Harrington off with rough strokes of his hand.

Harrington comes with Billy’s name on his lips, looking Billy right in the eye.

It makes Billy’s breath catch and he has to sink his hands into Steve’s hair, tug him down into another kiss so he can’t see Steve’s face.

It doesn’t mean anything.

—

And then Harrington tells him it has to stop. Because Billy was a jerk—Harrington’s words—to one of the younger kids. Again.

It shouldn’t gnaw at Billy the way it does. He lies awake all night, playing Harrington’s words—‘Don’t fucking touch me’ ‘This is over’—in his mind over and over and over. It should make him angry but he just feels sort of hollowed out.

The next morning he apologises to the kid. But only because Harrington gives great head.

That’s all it is.

—

‘So we good?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Well, did you apologise because you’re really sorry, or because you’re horny?’

’Does it matter.’ Billy noses at Harrington’s jaw, finds the spot that always drives him crazy and nips at it. 

Harrington presses his lips together, staring at Billy. 

A moment passes, then another, and Billy thinks this it it. The apology wasn’t enough. 

But then Harrington winds Billy’s tie around his fist, yanks him forward and says, ‘Not really,’ into his mouth.

Billy’s heart beats hard as he kisses Steve back.

—

The scent of dust rises up as Billy drops his stack of books onto the table. They land with a resounding boom, sliding off of each other until they’re spread across the table. The librarian shoots him a reproachful look, which he returns with his best charming grin, and Steve startles, looking up, brow furrowed.

Steve’s expression clears as he looks at Billy, even as he says, ‘You gave me a heart attack.’

Billy settles into the chair next to Steve, knocking their elbows together, sending Steve’s hand across his paper.

‘Fuck,’ Steve murmurs, ‘you’re lucky these are just notes.’

‘And what if they weren’t?’ Billy pulls a pen from behind his ear, sticks it in his mouth.

Steve follows the movement, eyes twinkling. He leans in, looks like he’s about to say something, but the librarian clears her throat, so he turns his attention back to his notebook. He scribbles something on a blank page, tears the corner off.

Their pinkies touch as he slides the paper across the space between them.

 _You’d owe me a blow job_ , it reads, with a crude drawing of two stick figures.

It’s not even that funny but Billy can’t help himself: he laughs. A deep rolling laugh, burbling up from his gut. But it’s the _look_ Steve gives him that sends warmth spreading through him.

The librarian shushes them, finality in her tone, and they fall back into silence. Their elbows brush every so often as they scribble away, notebooks and textbooks spread around them. 

But Billy only pretends to work on his paper, spends most of his time watching Steve. The way his brow furrows, his tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth. 

He looks up at Billy, once or twice, a smile in his eyes, and the warmth in Billy explodes.

Oh shit.

Billy is so fucked.

—

When Billy first arrived the days until graduation seemed to stretch on forever. Now, they fly past, and Billy can’t catch them.

—

‘Which colleges did you apply to?’ Steve asks, lying on his stomach on Billy’s bed.

Music is playing—one of Billy’s tapes—and the lamp on the desk bathes the room in soft, warm light.

Billy’s crowded against the wall, Steve pressed all along his side. He folds his hands on his stomach. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

Billy lets out a long breath. ‘Don’t want to spend another four years stuck in classrooms, learning stupid shit.’ He doesn’t ask where Steve applied—he’s got Ivy League written all over him, if not in his grades, then in his daddy’s check book. And it doesn’t really matter…does it.

‘That’s cool.’ Steve fiddles with the edge of a pillow. He glances sidelong at Billy. ‘What are you going to do instead?’

‘Whatever I want.’ Billy looks at Steve and for the first time he almost wishes he had a plan. But that’s stupid.

A beat and then, ‘Maybe we could—’

‘What?’

Steve shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’ He turns onto his side, props his head on one hand. ‘Hey, I was thinking of going into town this weekend.’ He pokes Billy’s shoulder. ‘Wanna come with me?’ His lips quirk. ‘I’ll buy you a milkshake.’ 

‘A milkshake?’ Billy’s pulse flutters, inexplicably. ‘Wow. How can I resist?’

Steve leans up over Billy—‘No one can resist me’—and presses him down into the mattress.

Billy winds his arms around Steve’s back and holds on tight.

—

Brenner Academy is a joke. A fucking relic.

The teachers are idiots and the other students are all losers.

Billy hates it here.

But it could be worse. He could be at a military academy or he could have got Tommy or Chad as a roommate. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about that.

So, yeah, things aren’t great but at the end of the day he kind of lucked out. Because Steve Harrington is the best roommate he’s _ever_ had.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :) I’ve got [a moodboard for the fic over on Tumblr if that’s your thing](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/190784050555/slackened-ties-rated-m-37k-billy-has-been) :)
> 
> I got to the point where I was so burnt out with writing anything this week so I may come back and revise this at a later date. Also, writing an entire AU in such a short word count is really hard!
> 
> As I said in the top notes, I have a whole multi chap fic for this AU planned out. There was no way I would be able to wrangle that 15k mess into something readable for the week of love, but hopefully this inspires me to finally get around to that main fic! (Which is from Steve’s POV at this point)
> 
> The title is kind of from a Franz Ferdinand song (The Dark of the Matinee) except in that the lyrics are ‘slacken ties’ but for ages I thought it was ‘slackened’ because of a Remus/Sirius fic I loved many many years ago. So, I thought of that line while writing my OG boarding school draft and it kind of stuck. Then I realised that those weren’t the exact words but I like slackened better than slacken, so I guess it’s named after that Remus/Sirius fic, which I hope is an OK thing to do?
> 
> Oh, and Chrissy Thomkins is an unintentional reference to That Thing You Do! Unintentional in that it was the first name that popped into my head and then I realised (two seconds later - I’ve seen the movie a LOT) where it came from. But I decided to keep it haha
> 
> The teacher’s name is just random - unless I’ve forgotten about a character with the last name Williams in ST which is entirely probable


End file.
